The Musings of Sheldon Jeffrey Sands
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: It's an intriguing place inside this man's head.  Why don't you stop for a visit?
1. In a Hotel

I love writing Sands. But as of yet, I have not been able to think up a satisfactory plot line for a full story. So, I have decided to compile here the products of the times when Sands takes over my mind and forces me, at gunpoint, to write something about him. Just drabbley stuff and Sandsisms... always fun!

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I'm lying on a bed with the thinnest fucking mattress ever. There's a spring poking me in the back, but I'm too lazy to move. I don't even want to think about how many hookers have probably been on this thing. It's gotta be a regular STD playground. I almost crack a smile at the thought of herpes on a see-saw with gonorrhea, and AIDS going down a huge orange plastic slide – but again, I'm too lazy.

This bed happens to be in a hotel, probably the worst one in the whole damn country, knowing my recent luck. It smells like it, anyway. When I got here and asked for a room, the owner asked if I wanted a bottle of some shit that passes for liquor down here and/or a woman sent up. I told him I never consume any food or drink on days ending in "y," and that I'd really prefer to just fuck myself. Hey, the rest of the world already has. Why shouldn't I get a turn as well?

So, yeah, I'm just lying here. I guess time is passing. It usually does. But I have no clue how long I've been here and really don't care to find out. Three days, I think. But the blinds are closed and I can't tell whether it's noon or midnight. It's all the same to me.

That _chicle_ kid said I was going to be okay. I don't fucking feel okay. In fact, I feel downright shitty. I wonder if he's back out whoring his bubble gum to people like nothing ever happened. Or maybe he's scarred for life. I'd like to think that I've aided in scarring someone for life, even if he was a pretty good kid.

I'm so goddamn bored. I could put the TV on, but what point would there be in that? The shows down here all suck, as does the radio. Porn is no good unless you can see it, so that's out. I can't read, for obvious reasons, which is a shame. I used to read quite a lot. Nonfiction mostly, and some of that really old stuff. The Decameron and Dante. You know what other book I really liked? 1984. The title was total bullshit; absolutely nothing happened in '84. But I did rather like the part where Winston almost gets his face eaten off by rats. I remember looking around at my English class as we read that book, thinking which one I'd most like to watch get their eyed chewed out.

Motherfucking irony for you there.

I have gotten up exactly four times since checking in: twice to have a glass of water with my painkillers, and twice to take a piss. (If two times is twice, and three times is thrice, then what's four times? Frice?) Otherwise, I've been about as useful and productive as an armless man on a basketball court. Or an eyeless man in an art gallery, to make the comparison a bit more apropos. Not that I have anything against art. Some of it's pretty cool, I suppose. I like those paintings that just look like the paint factory exploded on the canvas, or the ones which are all one color. I've always wondered if the artists actually saw that kind of stuff as a representation of the sociopolitical unrest or whatever, or if they just got their shits and giggles from making the art critics _ooh_ and _aah_ over a canvas painted grey.

I think I need to kill somebody. That might put me in a good mood. Shoot somebody in the fucking face until "face" is a misnomer. Or torture somebody. You don't need to see to do that. It's all in the touch.

Yeah, I should go out and kill someone, find someone who's just too nice for their own good, or too scummy to live. Anyone, really. I wonder if this place has a maid. She'd do. Or, I could give the owner a buzz for a hooker, and play Jack the Ripper.

I've never fucked a dead woman. I wonder what it would feel like.

_Christ, Sheldon, get a hold of yourself. You know you're not doing shit for a long time, you lazy bastard._

True. I would do something, but, you know, I don't feel like making the effort. I'll just lie here for a while longer, I think. Waste away. Maybe if I lie really still this spring will get the fuck out of my back.


	2. Concerning Blindness

Original chapter title, I know. Many thanks to my beta ShelobTinuviel for her help with the beginning of this musing.

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The worst thing about having my eyes drilled out is not the blindness. That I can deal with. (That is something with which I can deal?) It's not the dreadful inconveniences caused by it, nor is it the fact that my subscription to Hustler is now a complete fucking waste. The worst part about the whole fiasco was what I had to see just before it happened. A big fuck you, thanks for coming, the lights are going out now.

The drugs they gave me made it nearly impossible to see straight. Ajedrez, Barillo, Guevara – they were all swirls of fleshy colors, except for Barillo the Mummy, now that I think about it. Yet within my trippy vision the drill stood out so clearly in all its shiny, pristine horror. A pink spot on the bottom third of Ajedrez's face twisted into a smirk, and suddenly everything was spinning 'round, right 'round, baby, right 'round...

Now looking back at it (goddamnit, I wish there were fewer idioms which refer to seeing), I wonder if Guevara made that drill just for me. I rather hope so, because then I could feel super-special. Congratulations, Mr. Sands. You've made cartel history by being the first test subject for our new line of torture devices. Please accept this plaque as a token of our gratitude; the original drill will be melted down and made into commemorative coins...

Despite all the drugs, it still hurt, although it was more of a distant pain. Lucky me. I guess it was the psychological aspect of it all; if I didn't actually have to see it coming and then fall into darkness, it wouldn't have been as bad.

I was screaming as it happened. Not that I'd ever tell anyone that, unless maybe they asked specifically, and I was in a good mood, and they were someone I trusted. Which, in essence, means that I'd never tell anyone that. I couldn't help it, really. When I had one good eye remaining and saw the drill descending again, I fucking freaked. No words came out, and I didn't beg, about which I am very glad. But in my mind I was praying to anyone or anything or any deity who cared to listen to me. If Thor or Isis or Satan were to come save me, what the hell – I'd kiss their feet for all eternity, so I figured. For a second I even hoped that El would bust in and shoot the place up, but that little bit of wishful thinking passed quite quickly.

I'm alone, I thought.

_Not alone._

Interestingly, at the same time a small part of my mind was thinking, "Well, this is quite an eye-popper." And I wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh, except all that came out was more screaming. Then I thought about whether eyes were slimy but firm on the inside like peeled grapes at a Halloween party, or if they'd just cave in and collapse into a bloody mess.

Icky.

And, well, the rest is history. Congratulations, Mr. Sands...

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Review Responses:

**vanillafluffy** -- Hello again! Heh heh, I don't know. No reason why dear Sands shouldn't like Van Halen ;)


	3. How My Life Became a Huge Fucking Chess ...

This one is short, but I rather like it. Enjoy, and review if it strikes your fancy.

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I met her in some shitty dive where the pork was average – good for the cook, boring for me. She introduced herself as Ángela Ajedrez.

Ajedrez. Chess. Just to be cliché, I asked her if she was a pawn, or a rook, or...

She smiled and sat down at my table. "Soy la reina," she said. _I'm the queen._

I liked her. I didn't entirely trust her, which made me like her a little more. Or maybe it was the sex that made me like her more, since I don't really trust anybody. She was a woman unlike any I'd ever met: smart, sexy, and seemingly rather dangerous. We'd go for a stroll through the city streets, maybe buy some random bauble or dumb t-shirt, return to a hotel room, have a drink, fuck for a bit, and then chat about untraceable poisons and physics. She'd complain about how the deuchebags at work never let her go on any decent assignments. I told her she should come work for the CIA.

"The thing of it, _ajedrecista_," I said one night, sucking on a cigarette, "if you're good you can do whatever the fuck you want. And all you'll get is a slap on the wrist, if anything." I mimed a little slap. "Bad Sands."

Ajedrez. Chess. Conniving little bitch. Not so different from me, but there can only be one winner – and I don't play long, intricate games to have them end in a stalemate.

She saw me lying in the street. She approached and pulled me up

_Check._

"See anything you like?" A kiss that just tastes of irony.

Bang.

"No."

_Checkmate._


	4. Mad

Author's Note: It's supposed to be coherent in a really bizarre way.

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IV. Mad

I'm mad. Completely out of my tree, a few crayons short of a box, got a couple of screws loose, taking a trip down the rabbit hole. I know so, and I've understood and accepted this fact for quite some time. It's just a matter of using it to my advantage while convincing the higher-ups that it's only a severe case of eccentricity.

But the thing is, I can't be crazy. Because madmen don't know that they're mad. They think they're completely normal. I, knowing I am mad, therefore must be sane, because if I were mad, I'd _think_ I was sane, but I'd be wrong. Madmen are never wrong because we create our own little worlds where everything goes our way. Thus, if I were sane, I'd know it; and if I were mad, I'd think I was sane; and if I thought I was mad, then I really must be sane because madmen are never wrong, and a good madman never admits to his madness.

I'm going to go watch _Catch 22_.

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Thanks to Kaotica, vanillafluffy, and of course ST for your reviews! Kaotica, in response to the question you asked in your review of chapter 1, yes, that is what I meant. Everyone, please leave a review and let me know what you think! 


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